


Sport of Kings, the Old Queen's Heart, the Prince of Darkness

by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)



Series: Six Idiot Children with Guns [5]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Immortal Fake AH Crew, Multi, Russian Roulette, also all of them are together fight me, ask to tag my friends, i don't know what to tag, this si just gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 02:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego
Summary: He knows what they’re doing, knows what happened, because it’s happened before. He knows that Gavin, Jeremy, a revolver, and a box of bullets means one thing.Or, the one where they play Russian roulette





	Sport of Kings, the Old Queen's Heart, the Prince of Darkness

It’s almost midnight.

In this town, nothing good happens at midnight. Nothing good happens ever, really, can’t when this town is a cesspool, but it always gets _really_ bad as the witching hour approaches.

The penthouse is surprisingly quiet. Stepphie and Alec are gone, out on errands the crew knows they’d rather wait to do. Shifty and Matt are gone too, disappeared after the heist finished. It’s just the main crew milling around, tired and left with ringing in their ears. Well, Lindsay, Alfredo, and Trevor are there as well, just as banged up as the rest of them, but they’re basically part of the main crew at this point.

Masks have been hung up, jackets and heist outfits strewn across the floor leading to the bedrooms they all share. Four bodies are tangled up in the sheets, pressed together on a bed far too wide for all of them, makeup and blood staining sheets and skin and bandages. In another room, three bodies are wrapped up in blankets, legs coiled around each other as hands grope at whatever skin is within reach.

The missing two are sitting in the living room, silhouetted by moonlight as they talk in hushed tones. After a moment of quiet arguing, Jeremy sits back, fingers twitching excitedly, and Gavin reaches for something sitting on the table in front of them.

Shaky hands fumble with the safety before the sound of a gunshot rings through the penthouse.

Sleeping forms bolt upright, tired hands gripping guns they’re all too familiar with. Hushed whispers and hand signals take place of the shouting most would expect. They have to be quiet. It might not be safe.

It was never safe.

Ryan finds them first, Jeremy carefully sliding a single bullet into the cylinder of a ridiculously detailed revolver. Gavin’s on the seat next to him, a .45 bullet hole in his temple. Ryan can’t see the other side, but he knows it’s a mess. He’s bleeding on the expensive leather couches, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, unseeing. He’s already getting paler.

“C’mon man, we just got the couches cleaned.” Ryan mumbles. He knows what they’re doing, knows what happened because it’s happened before. He knows that Gavin, Jeremy, a revolver, and a box of bullets means one thing.

Russian Roulette.

Jeremy looks at him with eyes too wide, hands shaking as he sets the gun on the coffee table. “We were bored.” He mumbles, looking at the gun as if it’s the first time he’s seen one, as if he doesn’t use one as a tool every day, as if he doesn’t sleep with one under his pillow.

They all do.

Ryan sits next to him as the rest of the crew files in. They’re tired and busted and bleeding and it’s too late to deal with this shit, but here they are, standing around in their pajamas with one of their crew members bleeding from a gunshot wound to the head.

“You guys are idiots.” Michael grumbles, flicking the back of Jeremy’s head. He flops down onto the couch, uncaring of the dead body sitting next to him, uncaring that this corpse is the man he said “I love you” to not even two hours ago.

“How many bullets did you two jerk offs bring over here?” Geoff asks, picking up the gun. He inspects it, slides the cylinder out to get a good look, looks at the detailing and engraving as if it isn’t his gun. It’s always his gun.

“9? I think? There’s 8 left since Gavin lost.” Jeremy shrugs. Jack moves the body off the couch to make room. She doesn’t dump him on the ground like an asshole but she isn’t gentle about it. The rest sit down, either on the blood-stained couch or on the floor near the coffee table. They make a gruesome circle, seemingly uncaring about the dead body of their boyfriend laying on the floor, bleeding all over the expensive rugs. Alfredo looks on with an owlish gaze. It’s easy to forget he’s new at this, that he’s only really seen himself die. He keeps looking at Gavin like he’s waiting at something.

He is.

Geoff weighs the gun in his hand and shrugs before spinning the cylinder. He puts it against his temple and pulls the trigger. He doesn’t flinch. The gun clicks, the bullet still left in the cylinder. He’s safe.

He passes it to Jack who sighs before spinning. She chooses to press it against the floor of her mouth, the front sight digging into the back of her jawbone. She surveys the group and mumbles something about the idiocy of it all before her finger flexes on the trigger.

 _Click_.

She passes the gun along, and it lands in Lindsay’s hands. She grins a wolf’s grin, teeth filed sharp against still bloody lips. She regards the room as she spins, the thumb of her free hand rubbing almost excitedly at the side of her index finger. She levels the gun at Michael.

“No one said I had to shoot myself.” She giggles, a sound foreign to her mouth, to the situation. She yanks the trigger back.

Michael hits the ground, blood trickling from the bullet hole between his eyes. He’s already dead, already succumbing to the brain damage as the bullet leaves the back of his head. A thick spray of blood and brain matter hits the walls. It also hits Trevor, staining his skin and pajamas with the older man’s blood.

Ryan’s next up, and he doesn’t hesitate before reloading a bullet and spinning the cylinder and pulling the trigger against his temple. _Click_ . He pulls again. _Click._ Another time. _Click._ A fourth. _Click._

He shrugs and hands the gun to Jeremy. Jeremy’s hands twitch and shake as he raises the gun, not bothering to spin the cylinder. His finger jerks the trigger back. A shaky breath is exhaled as he slides the gun to Trevor.

Trevor’s hopped up on who knows what, probably a mix of Red Bull and booze and amphetamines, shit he’s snorted and swallowed and taken who knows how, hands twitching so bad he almost can’t hold the gun. He hasn’t slept for three days and hasn’t eaten in 2, eyes bloodshot and unblinking as he slides the barrel into his mouth and shoots.

Blood hits the ceiling, a bullet lodging into the support beams as his body slumps against the couch. His eyes almost seem to roll back, and it feels like emotion floods out of him, relief and something else, something darker, headier.

Next is Alfredo. He holds the gun in his hand and stares owlishly. He slides the bullet into the cylinder with unsteady hands already covered in blood, too much blood, of his partners and friends and enemies and he’s going to hyperventilate if he thinks about it for too long.

It goes against everything he’s been taught to push a gun against his head and pull the trigger. He might be immortal, might know for sure, might have died several times, but this is different. This is willing, this is firing a gun against his skull for nothing more than the sick rush of adrenaline. He could get that fix playing video games. He doesn’t need this.

He pulls anyway.

_Click._

He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a sob and shoves the gun at Geoff. Geoff shoots himself in the head like it’s nothing, like he’s done it before and he’ll do it again. That’s all too true. He falls to the floor, crumbling like a ragdoll with shitty joints. A pool of blood seeps out under him, staining the rugs he always complains about. At least now they can get rid of them.

Jack takes a moment to move the bodies out of the way to give them more room. There’s a pile now, four bodies almost thrown behind the couches, strewn about like dolls, abandoned and condemned. She slides back into her seat before reloading, her rings flashing in the moonlight. It’s getting closer to 1 am, the moon getting higher and the stars brighter, choked out by the pollution of Los Santos, replaced by city lights that shine just as bright.

 _Click_.

She passes the gun off to Lindsay, almost bored in her motions, sitting back against the couch with her legs crossed. She always manages to have that femme fatale vibe, and she rarely looks at home more than she does now, sitting on a bloodstained couch in a bloodstained room with the bodies of her friends, her colleagues, her lovers, sitting forgotten behind her.

Lindsay splatters her brain on the white upholstery, red streaks turning pink as the blood leaks down. Her body falls to lean against Ryan. He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t react other than shrugging her onto the floor. He pries the gun from her grip and takes aim.

He fires three times, _click, click, BANG_. Hair, brain matter, bone chunks, and blood sprays the wall, the ceiling, the others. It makes sense that the Vagabond would have the most bloody death, the most violent death.

Jeremy peels the gun from Ryan’s hand and reloads the cylinder with lazy hands twitchy from endorphins. He’s been a dope fiend since he’s been on the street, brain fucked up by too many bumps and enough rails to guide a train. He’s shaky, paranoid, a mess resembling a man with fingers that seem to vibrate.

He shoots himself in the temple, the other side of his head exploding into a mess of viscera and gore. Jack slides a finger into the wound, hooks a piece of Jeremy’s brain on her sin red nails. She presses it between her fingers, watches it squish flat with a sick noise. She flicks it away disinterestedly.

Alfredo takes the gun and reloads, fingers shaking so bad he drops the gun and almost shoots himself int he foot. He presses the gun to his head and shoots, letting out a whimper as the gun lets out a soft _click_ that couldn’t sound louder to him. He practically throws the gun to Jack.

She spins the cylinder and grins the grin of a woman with hundreds of deaths on her hands. She lets the gun hang from her finger, lazily pointing at Alfredo. “Let’s make a deal. Winner gets $5000, but only if they go until they off themself afterward.” She offers her free hand, fingers bent and pinky out.

He hooks it with his and the irony of using a gesture for kids whilemaking aa pact over Russian roulette doesn’t escape him. He lets go as if he’s been shocked, and sits back with his body folded up as she presses the gun behind her ear.

_Bang._

Alfredo wails, practically shreiking as she slumps. He’s surrounded by the remains of his friends, of the people he loves, of the people he shares his life with. In his mind, he knows they’re immortal, that they’ve come back from worse, that they’ll be back in a matter of hours. But his heart is sobbing, is screaming, is climbing out of his throat as he looks at them.

Ryan’s head is destroyed, a hole the size of a mouth gaping at his temple. Jack’s brain is leaking out a little, falling from the wound behind her ear. Jeremy’s temple has been obliterated. Geoff’s brainstem is blown out, and the back of Lindsay’s head is leaking all sorts of gross stuff. He can’t see the others, they’ve been discared behind the couches as if they’re pieces of fucking garbabge.

He slides a bullet into the chamber with twitching fingers as tears blur his vision. He’s seeing red, vision graying around the edges as he forgets to breathe. Everyone he loves is dead. He feels bad for whoever finds this massacre. He doesn’t spin the chamber, and even he doesn’t know if it’s on purpose.

He takes a deep breath and shoots himself between the eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm miztle-toe on Tumblr, come bug me!  
> Title credit to Big Sister by Elvis Costello


End file.
